


Same Time Next Year

by sarahenany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: Every year on the anniversary of his Fall, Crowley experiences lethargy - what humans would call "a severe depressive episode."It's less awful now that Aziraphale knows.Fanfic of "The Indelicate Concept of Time" by Thursday26. I suggest you read that first to understand this one:https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162800





	Same Time Next Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thursday26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday26/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Indelicate Concept of Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162800) by [Thursday26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday26/pseuds/Thursday26). 

It’s that time of year again. Aziraphale’s just getting ready to go around to Crowley’s flat when the demon himself appears on his doorstep.

“Hi, Aziraphale,” Crowley says casually, slipping into the bookshop as if nothing’s wrong, as if he’s not aware that today’s the day. Aziraphale works very hard to pretend being engrossed in his cataloguing, brain going a mile a minute: Is Crowley really that clueless? He can’t be. Is he that good at ignoring the day when he’s at his most vulnerable? He can’t be – he’s been in hostile places before, and this is a pretty serious liability. That leaves only one explanation: he knows, and he’s here on purpose. The fact that he’s got his sunglasses on, although he usually takes them off in Aziraphale’s presence by now, and is making little, darting movements instead of his casual slouch, corroborate it. Ah well, nothing for it but to pretend everything’s tip-top, perfectly normal, until—

The desolation hits Aziraphale like a wave: a force of nature, powerful, relentless. Cold, grief, despair… _loneliness. _He’s pushed back his chair and is halfway to standing when he hears the thud.

Well, one good thing about it, no need to pretend to be normal any more. “Crowley, my dear?” he calls, striding through the shop between stacks of books scheduled for reshelving. He pauses in dismay at seeing the lanky black-clad form laid out face-down on the floor. “It’s all right,” he says, trying for a bracing tone as he kneels next to the demon, “have you right as rain in no time, just steady on a mo, there’s a good fellow…” As he keeps up his encouraging monologue, he slides his right arm under Crowley’s shoulders and turns him onto his back with his left; then he slips his left arm under Crowley’s legs and hoists him up, cradling him a little awkwardly at shoulders and knees, to carry him over to the sofa. Too light, really, Aziraphale thinks in distress: he’s fairly strong, books are _heavy _and he was a warrior once after all, but the ease with which he can lift Crowley is not entirely thanks to his physical prowess. “I’m aware you don’t need to eat, dear boy,” he says, bending to lay him out carefully on the cushions, “but it surely couldn’t do any harm to have a square meal once in a while.”

He stays at Crowley’s side, lifting the sunglasses off his face and setting them aside. The worst of this is, he thinks through the miasma of despair that still weighs down the atmosphere like a living thing, the worst of it is that he knows Crowley remains _conscious _throughout this attack, unable to move or speak, but having to suffer through the misery without the blessed refuge of sleep. His eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking, combining with the fact that he’s stopped breathing to remind Aziraphale unpleasantly of a corpse. “Well, this won’t do, dear boy,” he announces, forcing cheerfulness into his tone, “it won’t do at all. Please allow me to make you more comfortable.” He arranges Crowley’s long limbs on the couch. “Back in two shakes of a duck’s tail. Shan’t be a minute.”

He crosses over to the record player and makes to put on a cello concerto he knows Crowley likes, but then he changes his mind at the last moment, afraid it may overstimulate him. Perhaps, if they can ever talk about this, he’ll know from Crowley’s mouth what helps the best. He has an idea that may filter through the mental oblivion that appears to be forced on his friend on this day, or at least it can’t hurt to try. He arms himself with a nice cup of tea and the book he prepared for just such a day as today, and comes back to the couch.

It’s less a miracle than a gentle suggestion, really, to persuade the seat to broaden ever so slightly, to comfortably accommodate the two of them. Aziraphale sits on the couch sideways, back to the armrest, and hoists Crowley into his arms so the demon’s back is resting comfortably against Aziraphale’s chest. Then he arranges their legs so that Crowley is bracketed between Aziraphale’s legs, leaning on him where his cooling body can absorb some of his warmth. Aziraphale tucks the afghan more securely around them and shifts Crowley around until his head is nestled into the warm slope between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, resting on his collarbone. When he’s settled, Crowley, still silent, turns his face toward Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale’s heart swells. He raises a hand to stroke Crowley’s hair. “That’s right, my dear,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do a thing. I was thinking I’d read to you for a bit. You’ve always been partial to _The Wind in the Willows, _haven’t you?”

He pauses, wondering if Crowley has enough control to respond. He didn’t really expect an answer, though, so after a moment he simply opens the book, propping it up on Crowley’s chest so he’s technically reading over Crowley’s shoulder, holding it with both hands to keep Crowley in his embrace. “Chapter One: The River-Bank.” He rubs his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head, trying to gauge his mood, hoping he’ll be able to tell if he’s in any distress. Keeping his voice smooth and light, he begins brightly. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash…”

It’s perhaps on Page Ten that Crowley inhales, rough and gasping, but there. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything else, but as Aziraphale reads the words of the Water-Rat, “…messing about in boats. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all...” Crowley breathes. The breath leads to another, and then to a great shuddery sigh; and then, under Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley’s heart starts beating again.

Heartened, Aziraphale continues, assuming the voice of the Water-Rat. “‘Look here! If you’ve really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?’

“The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions. ‘WHAT a day I’m having!’ he said. ‘Let us start at once!’”

* * *

It’s perhaps two or three hours later that Crowley stirs. He breathes it out, a cracked whisper: “Why?”

Aziraphale lays the book down. He knew this was coming: dreaded it, but knew. He had hoped that perhaps Crowley might be spared it this time, but clearly it must be. Another desolate cry rends the air: _“Why?”_

He doesn’t offer inane explanations. He would cut out his tongue rather than, today of all days, say the word ‘ineffable.’ Instead, he wraps his arms tightly around Crowley’s chest. “I’m here, dear boy. I’m here with you.”

Crowley’s head moves feebly from side to side. Aziraphale’s struck again by the wave of emotion, _children orphaned in the war, the wailing of a motherless child. _He splays both hands over Crowley’s chest, hoping to fill the emptiness he knows must be there. A thin, keening sound escapes Crowley’s throat, tearing at Aziraphale’s heart. “Shh, dearest.” The endearment slips out, and it’s too late to take it back. “You’re quite safe.” Aziraphale holds on and starts to rock them back and forth, rubbing gently at Crowley’s bony chest, over his heart that he so recently coaxed into beating again. “You’re quite safe, it—it’s all over now,” he says hesitantly, although he knows the pain survives. “No-one,” he says with a little more confidence, “is going to hurt you anymore.” His voice grows stronger, more confident. “I shan’t allow it.”

“Please…” Crowley whispers, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t know whether Crowley can even hear him or whether he’s begging the phantoms in his mind. “Please…”

“There, there.” He presses his cheek against Crowley’s, corpse-cold against him. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Slowly, he keeps up the rocking motion, hoping it can somehow comfort, somehow soothe. “You’re not alone. I’m—I’m here.” So many times he _hasn’t_ been, six thousand times Crowley’s suffered through this on his own. Has he ever discorporated because he hasn’t been able to defend himself? Please, God, no—Aziraphale shudders as something else occurs to him— have the humans ever thought him dead, and buried him alive? How has he survived with this debilitating condition, all these millennia, with no-one to come to his defence as he lies helpless? “Never again,” he promises firmly, keeping his cheek pressed to Crowley’s cold one. “Never again.”

“I never meant to Fall,” Crowley rasps, his tone tearing Aziraphale’s heart out. “All I did was ask questions…”

“I know,” Aziraphale hurries to say, murmuring into Crowley’s hair. “I know. It’s all right. I know.” He doesn’t know what to say that can possibly make this better, so he says the only thing he knows to be true: “You’re quite safe now. I’m here.”

And Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s collar and sobs.

It goes on for what feels like a long time, Aziraphale rocking Crowley and murmuring to him, holding him as though he could protect him from an ordeal that befell him six thousand years ago. _He’s suffered enough already, can’t you spare him this, _he finds himself railing at the Almighty, _he doesn’t deserve it, he’s a good person, he’s never deserved pain, please, have mercy on him, ease his heart, ease his mind. _Crowley weeps and begs, his body losing its corpse-like stillness as he turns onto his side, clutching at Aziraphle’s waistcoat, seeking solace. Aziraphale keeps his hold on him tight, but when Crowley reaches out a helpless, questing hand, Aziraphale releases one arm’s hold and catches it, holding on, interlacing their fingers, clasping his hand as though he could pull him out of the abyss in his mind. “I’m here, dearest,” he reassures frantically, rocking, bracing him against the terrible remembrance. “I’m here and I shan’t leave you. You aren’t alone. You won’t be alone.”

Slowly, the paroxysm eases, dry sobs turning to hitching breaths. Aziraphale can feel it in the atmosphere as the palpable wave of misery and grief subsides. It’s less like being in the wars now, less all-encompassing and more the numb sorrow of a single entity grieving the greatest loss of its existence. Overwhelming still – the thought of his friend with this much unhappiness inside him tears at his heart – but less impossible to deal with than the sorrow of a war-torn continent or a village of orphaned children. He keeps rocking and murmuring, and then, when it’s completely past and Crowley’s hand goes limp in his, his body lax and still but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Aziraphale reaches for the book again. He keeps one hand in Crowley’s limp one as he resumes his reading. “Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight like a little land-locked lake. Green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water…” Crowley shifts infinitesimally, and Aziraphale presses a kiss to his hair. “…while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful that the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, ‘O my! O my! O my!’”

After Aziraphale has been reading for a while, he feels Crowley’s limp form relax more naturally against him. His breathing deepens and takes on the regular quality of healthy sleep. Aziraphale kisses the crown of his head again, and keeps on reading until he’s entirely sure that the grip of the terrible thing has passed and that his friend is deep in normal, healing slumber. He keeps reading for a while more (“Since early morning he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the ducks…”) just to make sure, then softly closes the book and gently, gently, eases Crowley down to lie fully on the couch. Exhausted, he doesn’t stir as a pillow is tucked under his head and warm covers draped about him.

Aziraphale stands watching him for some time, just glorying in the sight of Crowley enjoying a natural sleep, not the suffering trance he has had to endure for so much of the day. He feels himself smiling softly as he kneels to adjust the covers and stroke his hair. “That’s it, dear, you have a nice rest.” The sharp features look softer, more peaceful, less as though the skin is stretched taut over the bones. Even his aura feels warmer, more natural. “Sweet dreams.” He doesn’t dare direct any miraculous energy toward Crowley’s dreams, not in his state, but thank goodness, it appears he doesn’t need to. Eventually, he rises, making himself comfortable in the armchair with a book where he can watch over his friend without hovering.

Tomorrow morning, or perhaps in a few days, when he’s rested, Crowley will wake, and stretch, and rise, and shuffle about the shop looking sheepish, until he’s sure that Aziraphale is going to pretend nothing happened at all. Then he’ll stick his hands in his pockets and affect his regular attitude – what do the young humans call it? ‘Too cool for school’? – and make a nuisance of himself, and pester Aziraphale until they go out for lunch. And they’ll both pretend nothing has happened at all, and if Crowley’s affected swagger is just a little softer, a little more trusting, if his stance is just a little bit more secure and relaxed around Aziraphale… well, Aziraphale won’t comment on it, letting him appear as strong and invulnerable as he pleases, never showing vulnerability, never admitting weakness, until this time next year.


End file.
